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Later, Hermann would reason that he was merely returning the favor.
After all once, early in their acquaintance, he'd spent a night helping Newt nurse a mangled nose and black eye after the latter had punched a man for sneering at Hermann's cane.
It had been foolish and pointless, and Hermann had certainly told him so, but it had also been brave and more than a little charming (and the first time anyone had stepped up to defend him). So, two decades and two wars later, it was the least he could do to make a similarly foolish mistake.
The day had started bad. Newt had only been out of medical for two weeks, wobbly and quiet in standard-issue sweats, and though the Precursors were gone and the worst of the Drift withdrawal was over, every day was a new challenge. Nightmares were a given, but so were shakes and migraines and depersonalization. He spent more time staring into corners than talking.
Newt was taciturn and frustrated in turns, but Hermann could feel nothing but pride and bone-shaking relief every time he looked at him. Newt was here, he had survived, and they had a chance Hermann hadn’t dared hope for in so long. So when Newt woke up that morning screaming from a nightmare and spent next few hours silent and curled into himself, Hermann understood.
He settled next to Newt on his temporary bed in Hermann's quarters, stretching out his leg and reading lab reports. Occasionally, he’d murmur about an interesting detail with no expectation of a response. These bad days were to expected, after everything, and Hermann would be there for all of them.
But eventually, food became a necessity, and he reasoned a little fresh air would do Newt some good. He needed to be around people other than Hermann, even if the thought made Hermann tense with unusual possessiveness. So, he cajoled Newt into a trip to the mess hall. And if Newt hid himself swallowed up in his PPDC hoodie, if Hermann walked close enough for their shoulders to brush, well, it was nobody's business.
Hermann's heart hurt to see Newt so pale and quiet, a shadow of the man he once knew, but Newt was there, and he still smiled when Hermann put a hand on his back to guide him through the door. Hermann kept it there, steadying Newt as they entered the crowded hall.
Newt was still adjusting to being around people again post-recovery, and his bad days made it ... difficult. Some of the current crew had been around in the first war, but most of the Shatterdome had only known Newt from the news. Until that last battle. Until he brought the kaiju back.
Jake had reassured them both that Newt would be safe in the Shatterdome as long as he was the Marshall, but honestly, Hermann hadn't put much thought to it. People would have their reactions and maybe they wouldn't understand, but they hadn't seen what he had. They hadn't saved the world.
As far as he was concerned, they could keep their misplaced anger to themselves. Newt had long ago proven himself worthy of saving, and Hermann was busy doing so. Perhaps if he'd paid more attention, he wouldn't have been so surprised when someone loomed in their path.
"You shouldn’t be here," said the large man blocking them, all thick American Southern accent and aggressive sneer. A jaeger pilot trainee, by the looks of it. Glaring pointedly at Newt.
"Excuse me?" Hermann countered, more haughty than intimidating in his surprise.
"You heard me. Lot of people in here lost family in the last attack. All 'cause your friend here got a little too close to the enemy." He was looming over Newt, who merely stared at the floor.
Hermann stood straighter, gripped his cane tightly and enunciated carefully. "My friend is Dr. Newton Geiszler, and without him, none of us would have even been here to be attacked a second time. Show some respect."
But the brute ignored Hermann, focusing in on Newt. "I heard you chose to Drift with those things. Got people thinking maybe you enjoyed it."
The stranger had a hand on Newt's arm before Hermann could react, tugging him roughly forward to spit venom in his face. "I think you sold us out for your fucking fetish. Traitor."
Newt's eyes were wide, but his face stayed pale and blank, and he didn't raise a hand to defend himself. Hermann knew, then, that he wouldn't. Newt would stand there and take whatever this bastard dished out, because on some level he had been waiting for it.
Hermann didn't have to think about shoving first his cane and then his body between them, breaking the man's grip on Newt and shielding him, conveniently shoving the pilot back with the tip of his cane in the process. "That's enough," Hermann hissed. "Or I'll have you reported."
The wannabe pilot stumbled back but didn't turn away, staring them down with a nasty laugh. Hermann turned his back to usher Newton away from the confrontation. Until he heard the asshole’s parting shot: "Oh, a traitor and a coward. I'd watch your back. Shatterdome is a dangerous place for those."
Hermann stilled, staring for a moment at the unhappy turn of Newt's lips, at the dark bruises under his downcast eyes. Then he hissed out a breath, squared his shoulder, turned on his heel and punched the man in the face.
It was chaos after that, though it must have been only a moment or two before security descended and separated them. It had been enough time to earn him a split lip and a bloody nose, but given the size difference, he thought he got off lucky.
Newt, apparently, disagreed. No longer ghosting beside him like a shadow, Newt dragged him out of the mess then forced him to sit on a bench built into the corridor outside. He fumbled to press a napkin to Hermann's freely bleeding nose, hands fluttering around his bruised face.
"What the hell was that, dude!?" Newt demanded hoarsely, still fussing over him. "Since when do you punch people?"
Hermann hummed, leaning his head back obligingly for Newt’s attentions. "I believe I got it from you."
Newt's fingers slowed, and he stared vaguely at Hermann's chin, frowning. "You didn't have to do that, you know."
Hermann grabbed one of those restless hands and brought it to his lap, entwining their fingers delicately. He smiled, wincing slightly when it pulled his cheek.
"I know. I wanted to."
He had so much more to say, about it not being Newt's fault, not even being his choice. About Newt being one of the bravest people he knew. About everything Newt deserved. But Hermann was tired, and bleeding, and Newt was already suspiciously wet-eyed.
Besides, they had time enough for all of that. So instead, Hermann just leaned his tilted head against Newt's curls and squeezed his hand gently.
"Sap," Newt accused him, but his voice was terribly soft. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up. My knight in shining armor."
Hermann's scoffing was drowned out by Newt's soft laughter as they walked, limped, supported each other to their quarters.